


Drink Up, Handsome

by spnblargh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bartender!Cas, Christmas, Drunken Shenanigans, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, M/M, Midnight Kisses, Romantic Comedy, Schmoop, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Smith can't stop ogling the bartender at his workplace's Christmas party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink Up, Handsome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltfree (ghostlights)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlights/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Допивай, красавчик!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115252) by [Wintersnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintersnow/pseuds/Wintersnow)



> My DeanCasWeek13 Secret Santa gift for saltfree!

There are a myriad of thoughts swirling around Dean Smith's head right now, muddled further by the excessive amount of alcohol he's been drinking all night. He's on his fifth — no, _sixth?_ He can't quite recall — glass of red, but considering the setting, that's really not so bizarre. A lot of his colleagues are more inebriated than he is anyway, and as long as he doesn't start talking shit to his boss or stripping off his clothes, he's doing perfectly fine.

The end of year-slash-Christmas work party is usually a pretty big booze fest. The unfortunate part of this year's one is that it's actually taking place on Christmas Eve, which doesn't bode well for tomorrow's plans. He'll have to make the long-ass trip to his parents' home all the while nursing a hangover. Moreover, he has to be up at seven and it's already close to midnight, and it doesn't look like the party will be winding down any time soon. Sleep deprivation, here we come.

Dean leans back against the wall, off in a corner to himself. Over the rim of his glass, he observes the scene around him: the lighting is dark, creating a kind of _moodiness_ that could be somewhat inappropriate for a workplace event; the open bar is being manned by two gorgeous men, with a huge selection of alcohol behind them and a counter that changes colours every few minutes; the DJ is tucked into a corner of the room beside a big white Christmas tree; men and women are grouped off in numbers of fours or fives, chatting amicably; occasionally a pair will find their own spot to themselves, and a few duck out to the balcony or a side room for some alone time.

Wistfully, Dean entertains the idea of getting some alone time with the bartenders. One of them in particular, actually — the dark haired, broad shouldered gentleman with the healthy helping of peach fuzz. He's familiar to Dean for one reason or another, although he can't quite put his finger on where he's seen him before. Either way, he's damn fine, although Dean's really not sure how to approach him in a situation like this. Dean's only ever scored male hook-ups in actual gay bars, while here he's got no way of telling what this gentleman's sexual orientation is. He's not keen on his co-workers witnessing and labelling him as _gay_ , either. Nothing wrong with being gay, of course, but Dean Smith likes the ladies as well. He just so happens to be in a very _dude mood_ tonight.

He sighs heavily, only it's cut short when someone bumps him with a very bony, very rude elbow. "Ow."

Charlie flicks her hair over her shoulders, her face flushed pink from the humidity and wine. A big floppy Santa hat sits askew on her head. "Hey, good-lookin'. Why so glum?"

Dean does a double take of the beverage between her fingers: it's not wine at all, but a bottle of Blue Moon. "Are you seriously drinking _beer?_ "

"Hey, we might be in Rome, but we don't have to do what the Romans do," she says cheekily, taking a swig from her bottle for emphasis. He and Charlie were both born into lower income brackets than most of their co-workers, and never in their lives dreamed of going to an office party that took place in a fancy pants hotel with a balcony that overlooks the city skyline. Making the adjustment from on-tap to bottled wine had been an unpleasant experience for Dean's wallet, but apparently Charlie's not going to conform to any of the upper class' bullshit. "You didn't answer my question," she reminds him, nudging him with her elbow again.

Dean huffs, sipping at his wine. "It's nothing. Just, I dunno. I really wanna bang that bartender."

"Oooh," she coos, glancing towards the bar eagerly. "Which one?"

"Well, they're both hot, but the guy with the dark hair, definitely."

"The tall, dark and handsome type," she says, patting him sympathetically on the arm. "You are so predictable, Mr. Smith."

He rolls his eyes. "Shush, you."

She leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder, and Dean cops a mouthful of Santa hat bobble. On the other side of the room, the DJ changes the song from something low key and Blues-y into something to dance to. A few of their colleagues seem enthused by this change and take to the wide floor space beneath the glittery disco ball, and the two of them observe their jerky dance movements with amused smirks. Dean could wipe the floor with them. He's been dancing since he was five.

"Go chat him up," Charlie tells him, readjusting her head more comfortably on his shoulder.

"Not sure which way he swings," Dean replies.

"Oh, he's _totally_ into dudes," she says matter-of-factly. "Trust me, that is _so_ not an issue."

"How do you know?" Dean snorts. "Have you talked to him?"

"No, but I'm a lesbian," she says, standing up straight to look at him. "That makes my gaydar, like...twice as powerful as yours."

Dean chuckles. "So you reckon I've got a shot?"

"For sure! He's a babe, you're a babe, go have fun and likely kinky sex."

"You are _so_ not helpful," he grunts, but he downs the rest of his wine and heads towards the bar, ignoring Charlie's well-meaning call of, "Good luck!" and focusing instead on the alcohol flooding through his veins, pumping away all of his inhibitions into inaccessible places.

At the bar, the music is significantly louder. He's hoping to have at least _some_ kind of conversation with this guy, and he's never been a fan of shouting just to be heard. Same reason he loathes clubs so much.

He takes a seat at the counter just as it turns a vibrant purple, and his presence catches the attention of the other handsome bartender. He orders a drink, mostly through gestures and pointing at menus, and receives a martini in sixty seconds flat. The taste is a little gross, enough to make his face twitch slightly, but at least it's strong.

The music is still deafening. Dean knows that this DJ's got a mix of obnoxiously loud and blissfully soft, so he can wait it out. At least from his position by the bar he can get a better look at bartender choice number one. He's got a long-sleeved shirt rolled to his elbows, and even through the fabric Dean can make out his tantalisingly toned biceps. His pants are tight and flaunt a truly _magnificent_ ass, one that Dean would very much like to squeeze. His adam's apple juts out and works well with his chiselled jaw line, and Dean catches himself licking his lips absent-mindedly.

Just as the song's changing over, his eyes meet with the gentleman's own, and there's a spark of recognition that appears on his face.

" _Dean Smith?_ "

That's really _not_ what he was expecting to hear. He glances down at his shirt, only to find that the nametag he'd stuck on at the start of the night has disappeared, so he's really got no idea how his name could have slipped from the bartender's lips.

"Uh," Dean says dumbly, watching the gentleman come closer to his end of the bar. "I—sorry, I recognise the face," he laughs nervously. The gentleman just tilts his head, smiling. "I can't quite, uh, put a face to the name. Right this minute." He holds up his martini accusingly. "Bit tipsy, you know."

"Castiel Novak," the bartender answers him, looking him up and down. "We went to high school together, if you recall?"

Every single cog in Dean's brain grinds to a halt. Castiel Novak. _Castiel Novak_. The—he's the—

"Excuse me." Dean gets up abruptly, attempting to keep his face schooled. "I gotta, um, a thing—"

He leaves in a hurry, forgetting his martini at the bar and trying to pretend the offended expression on Castiel's face doesn't exist. He scurries back to the place he'd been loitering at previously, only to discover that Charlie is no longer there. He glances over the heads of the crowd, spots the red hair beneath the gawky Santa hat, and heads in that direction.

"Charlie," he says, grabbing her by the arm.

She turns to him, stumbling slightly. Apparently the alcohol's starting to hit her hard. "Sup, Dean-o?"

The music's too damn loud again, so without answering, Dean just drags her out to the balcony, ignoring the irritable couple leaning against the railing that are forced to pause mid-make out.

"What the heck are ya doing?" she slurs moodily, tipping the remaining dregs of beer down her throat. "What's goin' on?"

"That bartender is Castiel Novak," he tells her, holding her by both shoulders. "I told you about him, remember?"

She blinks blearily, a confused look on her face. "Uh—"

"Linebacker," Dean elaborates, frustration mounting. "You know, er, the guy with the blue eyes, the high school hunk—"

" _Oh!_ The football star you spent your adolescent years wanking to!" she exclaims triumphantly, her voice carrying awkwardly across the balcony, drawing unimpressed looks from the Make Out Couple. After a few seconds, however, they go right back to shoving tongues down each other's throats. "Wait, he's here?"

"He's the bartender. The guy I was gonna go chat up."

"Holy shit," she breathes. "This is, like, destiny or something." She stares at him, eyes shimmering and bloodshot. "You can finally live out your teenage fantasies, dude! Now's your chance!"

"What? No!" Dean shakes her by the shoulders. "I—I can't."

"Why the hell not?" She puts her hands on her hips, frowning.

"He, uh, he kinda—" Dean removes his hands from Charlie's shoulders, tugging at his collar and avoiding her eyes. "He has this, um. Effect. On me."

"Ahhh, Blushing Schoolboy Syndrome," she nods knowingly. "That comes in girl flavour, too." She shakes herself. "But, wait, is he really that hot? I'm no good at judging dudes sometimes. I mean, aesthetically, he's nice to look at—"

"He's perfect," Dean interjects, stars forming in his eyes. "Good god, he's so perfect, Charlie. This is the ultimate fucking mancrush, I swear. Those fucking shoulders of his..." Dean trails off, unable to go on, silenced by Castiel's unspeakable good looks.

"Okay..." Her frown deepens. "Okay, so, this is the one who used to walk around shirtless after football practice, right?"

"Yep."

"Whose chest was all super muscly and he'd be all sweaty and it would create this ' _effervescent glow'?"_

"Er, yeah."

"And he'd look at you with those ' _baby blues_ ' and it was like you were ' _drowning in them'_ —"

"Yeah, yeah, that's the one," Dean mutters, unwilling to hear anymore of his two-am-half-drunk-poetic babbling. "The point is that he's really damn hot and any time I tried speaking to him I would completely clam up. I'd just stand there gaping at him."

"Like me if I ever met Mila Kunis," she nods solemnly, finally understanding. "Well, isn't this the perfect opportunity to chat with him? I mean," she gestures towards his suit, "you're a successful businessman. You're here in a big pish-posh party, practically rolling in wealth." She squeezes his cheek lightly. "You're good-looking, and Dean, I've seen your high school photos. Age has been _very_ kind to you—"

"Hey!"

"You're the epitome of desire now," she informs him, straightening his shirt and plucking a line of thread from the cotton. "And you better wise-up, buddy, 'cause Studley's coming your way."

"Wait, what?"

She smiles expectantly at him, and a liquid dread seeps into his stomach. He does a one-eighty and finds himself face-to-face with the linebacker himself, who is holding up a tray of empty glasses and giving him a shy smile.

"Hello, Dean," he greets, tilting his head.

He feels Charlie's sympathetic pat to his shoulder, hears her murmur, "I'll leave you to it," before marching back inside, wobbling dangerously on her high heels.

"Uh, hey," Dean says smoothly, his palms beginning to sweat. "Sorry for, um, being a total jackass before."

Castiel laughs, skin crinkling around his eyes. His laugh is the same but the wrinkles are new, and somehow it makes him even more irresistible. "It's fine. Is everything alright, though? You looked a little panicked."

Dean rubs the back of his head. "I don't really have a good explanation." He chuckles self-deprecatingly. "I dunno, seeing you again just kinda...surprised me. Or something. I'm an asshole, you shouldn't waste your breath talking to me."

Castiel's smile widens, eyes twinkling. "Well, I'm technically out here to clean up, not talk to you. Although," he readjusts the tray in his hand, "I was hoping we might get a chance to catch up?"

"Oh! Yeah, sure." Dean nods enthusiastically, still uncontrollably flustered. He's actually paranoid that sweat will start to appear through his suit, which is just all kinds of unattractive. "So, bartending," Dean starts, watching as Castiel carefully leans down to pick up a champagne glass off the tiled floor. He pauses, transfixed by Castiel's perfect butt, then remembers himself. "How do you like it?"

"It's alright," Castiel answers, standing up again. "It's a weekend job, so I don't have too much time to reflect on it, to be honest."

"Uh-huh. So, what else do you do, then?" Dean feels himself growing a little more confident now, although he's still shamelessly sweating. It's winter time but he almost wants to take his jacket off. "Still playing football?"

Castiel chuckles. "No, not anymore. Haven't played since high school."

"That's a shame," Dean says genuinely. "You were damn good at it."

"Hm." Castiel smiles at him, looking up at him through long dark lashes. "What about you? Are you still cheerleading?"

Dean feels horrendously mortified by that question. Being a male cheerleader in high school was Hell on Earth. Not because he didn't enjoy it — it was fucking _liberating_ — but because insults were tossed at him regularly and he actually got punched on the way home from a game once. So, no, he definitely wound up putting his cheerleading career behind him.

"Nah," Dean answers eventually, playing with his cufflink. "Gave that up, too."

"Pity. You were damn good at it."

Dean looks up at that, and he and Castiel have a very long, very intense staring match. That was a flirtation, surely. Castiel was flirting with him, right? Dean's not sold on the idea, but it's definitely a possibility.

"Thanks," Dean replies, although his gratitude isn't really warranted.

The corner of Castiel's mouth tilts up coyly, then he raises his eyebrows and turns around, heading for an abandoned table covered in dirty cups and used up cigarettes.

Dean jogs after him once he recovers from his temporary paralysis. "So, no football, huh? What are you doing instead?"

"Well," Castiel says, setting the tray down and placing the shrivelled cigarettes into the cups. "I'm studying, actually."

"Yeah? At college?"

"Yes." He piles up the cups into a stable heap. Dean finds himself mesmerised by Castiel's angular fingers. "First it was a finance degree, then I switched to law. Now I'm doing nursing."

" _Nursing?_ " Dean blanches. Oh shit. Oh shit, he does _not_ need that type of masturbation fodder. An ex-linebacker in a nurse's outfit is a big, big no-no. Fuck. How is he supposed to string sentences again? "That's. That's neat."

Castiel grins. "It's not the manliest job, I know." He turns back to the table, gathering up his tray. "My parents were... _unimpressed_ , I suppose is the word you would use. Which is unfortunate, because I've got a college debt up to my ears and their support would have been preferable."

Dean frowns. Castiel isn't allowed to talk like that. Castiel is fucking perfection on legs and his parents are blind to it, apparently. "So what if it's not manly?" Dean crosses his arms. "Nurses are badass. I mean, they do all of the hard jobs — doctors do all of the diagnosing and shit, but nurses have it tough, man. They gotta do all the crummy work and they're damn good at what they do." Castiel listens to his spiel, amusement clear on his features. Dean ploughs on, "Seriously, if you ask me? Nurses are the epitome of impressive. And _you_ would make a—" (sexy, beautiful, gorgeous, delicious) "— _fine_ nurse."

Castiel brushes the sleeve of his shirt, and it may be dark out, but Dean swears he can see a light pink flush adorning his cheeks. "You're very kind."

"Honest," Dean corrects, smiling.

They share another moment like before, where they say nothing but engage in some pretty solid eye-lovemaking. He remembers those blue eyes from years ago, back in the days by the football field or in the hallways between classes. He never expected those eyes to look at him the way they're looking at him now.

 _Whistle. Bang._ They jerk around to witness a large, colourful firework that bursts across the night sky. It's vibrantly red and so close it's as if the sparks are raining down upon their heads. There's a scuffle and shout from inside, and suddenly the balcony is filling up with Dean's colleagues, all gasping in excitement as more fireworks follow up. They mostly come in red and green, but occasionally a gold one shoots up to join the rest.

Dean finds himself pushed closer to Castiel, their shoulders smooshed together. Heat rolls from shoulder to shoulder, but it's comforting rather than overbearing. He's still sweaty and his face is probably flushed but Dean feels more alive than he has in a long time.

There's the sound of a chair dragging across the tiles and suddenly a woman is significantly taller than everybody else, the chair acting like a podium. Dean doesn't know her name but she's one of the managers beneath Mr. Adler, the one in charge of interviews and legal paperwork. Right now, however, she just looks absolutely shit-faced and is barely managing to maintain her precarious balance.

" _Everyone!"_ she screams over the crowd. "It's midnight! It's Christmas, everyone! That means midnight kisses!" she squeals.

A man's voice shouts back, " _That's a New Years tradition!"_

"Shut it, Kale! I'll dock your bloody pay!" she snaps, raising an entire bottle of champagne and drinking it down. "Happy Christmas, everybody!"

Next minute, she's falling back into the arms of the crowd, like she's a rockstar taking a stage dive. Laughter bubbles up in Dean's chest, but before he has a chance to let it escape, he's bombarded by a streak of red hair, Santa hat, and Charlie's lips pressed against his own.

A second later she pulls back, gasping. Dean stares at her, dumbfounded. "Y'heard what the lady said," she hiccups, face crimson red and sweaty. She glances between he and Castiel. "Have a g'night, won't chu?" She hiccups again then swaggers away, planting another kiss on a random woman's lips.

Dean stares after her, and then suddenly he witnesses another woman — Melissa, perhaps? — coming up and placing light kisses on both Dean's and Castiel's mouths. "Merry Christmas, boys!" she chirps, then moves onto her next target.

One by one, everybody starts kissing. Some get more into it than others, with tongues and saliva mixing in a rather grotesque and exaggerated fashion, and others too shy to do more than a tiny peck on the cheek. The other bartender comes out and lays a kiss on Castiel with a loud _smack,_ the kind that leaves Castiel grinning afterwards and batting him away. Across the other side of the balcony, Dean catches Charlie being dipped back and kissed passionately by the new receptionist, Gilda. Charlie's been crushing on her for a month now. Fucking kudos to her.

Feeling courageous —  but mostly terrified — Dean turns towards Castiel. Almost simultaneously, Castiel looks to him as well, and that coy smile is back up again, playful and delighted. "Might as well," Castiel says, and then actually starts leaning forward.

Dean's heart is beating so hard it's a goddamn drumbeat in his ears, and it's so distracting that Dean almost forgets to lean in too. Their lips meet in a chaste, lingering kiss, and Dean momentarily forgets to breath.

They pull away a moment later, the fireworks still going off over their heads. Dean feels the tiny gleam of Castiel's saliva remaining on his mouth, looks to those pink lips on that outrageously handsome face. All he can think about is how tame that kiss was, a significant contrast to the heavy make-out sessions he'd often fantasised about. And yet, despite its chasteness, that was the best fucking kiss he's ever had.

It's so good, in fact, that he goes back for seconds. And thirds. And oh, there's a tongue in there now, and it's not Dean's. That's _Castiel_ making out with him, those are _Castiel's_ hands clinging to his jacket and cupping his cheek. Dean may very well pass-the-fuck-out.

He doesn't, however, because passing out would mean _not_ being able to suck on Castiel's tongue, and that would be a very unpleasant thing. He's pretty sure he just heard a moan, following by a breathy little gasp. It's like Dean's actually melting.

All of his colleagues are around, some possibly even recording this incredible display of PDA, but for fuck's sake, Dean's making out with his high school football star, so screw them. His hands cup Castiel's glorious ass and he heaves him up into the air, supporting his weight against his torso. Castiel laughs into his mouth, joyful and mind-blowingly gorgeous, his legs wrapping snugly around Dean's waist and his arms hooking behind Dean's neck.

He tunes out the wolf whistling and the gasps from his colleagues. He's got more important things to concentrate on, like the fact that's he can feel Castiel's arousal through his pants and that fact is _extremely_ important.

"You know," Dean pants, their lips barely breaking apart. "Linebackers have a lot of stamina, I hear." Castiel giggles, sucking at Dean's bottom lip. "I've always wanted to get busy with a footballer."

"Yeah?" Dean opens his eyes, sees Castiel's toothy grin. "It's funny you say that. I have a bit of a cheerleader fetish, myself."

Oh, Merry Christmas indeed.


End file.
